Black Revisited
by rvr idtq
Summary: Remus Lupin, upon arriving at Hogwarts, reflects on his youth and his relationship with Sirius Black. Inspired by Evelyn Waugh's "Brideshead Revisited."


Several years ago, I watched small snippets of the BBC miniseries of Evelyn Waugh's novel "Brideshead Revisited." I think somehow, subconsciously, this was the source of the title of my second real attempt at fanfiction, "Black Revisited." Last spring, I finally managed to read the actual novel, and I was suddenly struck by the potential of a Harry Potter parallel involving Sirius Black. My random decision years prior was actually not too far from a real allusion. I then decided to rewrite the story, modeling it after Waugh's novel. It is now that I finally approach this task. I cannot promise anything, and I do fear that Waugh must be rolling in his grave. I will, however, plod forward and hope for the best. I haven't read the books in a while, and I know I should before starting a new fan fic, so please feel free to point out logistical errors. Thank you.

BLACK

REVISITED 

THE SACRED AND PROFANE MEMORIES

OF PROFESSOR REMUS LUPIN

PROLOGUE

I had been drifting between jobs at the time the offer came, and I cannot deny that I was greatly relieved. It had been difficult since graduation for me to make a living in any manner, harder still after certain events that I will not mention at this time occurred. Still, I felt somewhat uncertain. I had been given so much by this man; did I dare take advantage of his generosity yet again, especially after what had happened? But I was desperate, and so I consented to take the position in a carefully worded letter that I mailed several days later. I had considered, of course, turning to the muggle world for employment, but without proper records of education it would be difficult to achieve any sort of employment status. Additionally, I couldn't help but feel a sudden twitch of guilt at the thought of fabricating records and identification. Lying has not done well for me.

I arrived at the train early so as to avoid conflict. I felt again the shame that has haunted me throughout my life, and I wished to retreat into as much oblivion as I could find on a crowded school train. It was ridiculous enough that I was forced to take the student train because of my economic situation. Having to confront someone, anyone, even if it were only a child, with my obvious failings would have been too much. 

I found an empty compartment (although all of them were empty at that time) near the back and settled in. I drank a small sleeping draught I had prepared, tucked the bottle into my briefcase, and let my mind sink into artificial relaxation. Again, avoiding needless interaction was my goal. I knew that, considering the position I had accepted, I would have to speak to a multitude of people on a daily basis, but at that moment, I simply wanted rest. The fear of the memories I saw waiting in the compartments of that train was more than I could manage.

I was sharply pulled out of my rest by an incident of which I am sure you are aware. I will not recount needless details thus. I dealt with the situation on instinct, swiftly and without a thought of the others around me. What I have feared for more than thirty years, my impulses gaining power over my conscious thoughts and reservations, did me more good than harm at that moment, allowing me to function and resolve what could have become a horrible situation. The words that I said then, his name in particular, shock me slightly now. My fears were tossed aside by a stronger, more secure self that I had not seen in many years. And after, the face of the boy sliced deeply as I knew that is would; yet I functioned with surprising grace and security. I felt at that moment that I could, and would handle what stood before me, that the past would not stop me from doing what I had promised. I had not yet taken certain things into account at that moment, but I felt, somehow, that I was beyond it all.

----

Dinner was atrocious. 

I tried desperately to make pleasant small talk with my colleagues, to include myself in their conversations, but the entire time (and I swear that I do not exaggerate) I felt his glare burning on my face. While the others were kind and welcoming he, though I did not talk to him at all, seemed to wish me dead. Rather, I know he wished me dead. He's wished me dead for years; only usually I'm not near enough to feel it. My only comfort was the thought that I surely couldn't be the only one he despised so heavily. I would have liked to throw something at him, but I didn't feel it would be appropriate. And again it was strange. Just as I had when I had received the prefect's badge with my school letter, I couldn't see how anyone would ever think it a good idea to put me in a position of authority. 

People always seem to think that you grow out of things like schoolboy grudges, but you never do really. The best anyone ever manages is hiding it better.

At least the pudding was good.

----

Here at the age of thirty-six I began to be old. As I glanced into the mirror over my dresser, there was more grey hair than I had ever imagined possible. I had been operating under the delusion that my magical blood would protect from age as it did the wizards around me. Dumbledore himself didn't look a day over sixty-five, and yet here I was, greying like a muggle, aching with the cold of my poorly heated room in the castle. But years of painful, inhuman transformations weaken the flesh even faster than age, and the pepper in my hair was little more than yet another reminder of my curse. And this one I couldn't hide beneath grey wool. 

I could only sleep now with the aid of sleeping draughts. Memories or aches alone I could ignore, but this constant physical and mental unrest was inescapable. So I fumbled for a second phial in my bag and drained it quickly. I lay down on my bed, still dressed in the shirt and pants and had with the least mending, waiting for the sleep to come.

And it did.

But something was wrong. I awoke early than I should have. I could not read my watch, but something inside me knew that it was far too early. I arose mechanically, acting under some strange impulse. My stocking feet slid into slippers, my arms into a worn and woebegone dressing gone. My hand fumbled for my wand, and suddenly I was in the corridor. My feet began to step, one after the other, following some forgotten instinct. My brain tried desperately to turn me around, I think, to send me back to bed, but it was too swamped with the syrup of the draught to be of any use. At the same time I was vaguely conscious of knowing exactly where I was going without being able pin down what exactly it was I knew.

I came to a statue, and a hand reached for the wand it had tucked into a pocket. I whispered something without truly hearing it and disappeared into an opening gap. My wand dropped and my hands groped along the dirt wall, feeling for a corner, for anything. My forefinger caught on a point, and my fingers desperately dug around the edges and removed a small metal box from the wall. I slumped to the ground (I was already stooping) and dropped the thing into my lap. Grabbing my wand again, I was suddenly awake, the shock or some other force removing the effects of the draught completely. I prized open the box, and it swarmed back to me.

I had been there before; I knew all about it.


End file.
